


The Urge to Kill

by IJM



Category: General Hospital
Genre: Dark, Gen, Potential Triggers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24135409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IJM/pseuds/IJM
Summary: Betsy Frank's latest loser of a boyfriend attempts to have an inappropriate conversation with 21 year old Bobby.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	The Urge to Kill

**Author's Note:**

> Not for profit.  
> No Claim of Ownership of Characters.  
> For Entertainment Purposes Only.  
> Inspired by recent events in my own life.  
> One-shot.

Bobby Frank was home from his college classes during the winter break. He normally would have stayed in his studio apartment close to the campus, but his mother Betsy had “someone special” she wanted him to meet. After twenty-one years, he was tired of meeting her _special someones_ , a string of losers, one after another, as far back as he could remember.

Betsy introduced Bobby to Horace Meyer, a tall, slender man whom Bobby estimated to be near 60 years old which was quite a bit older than his mom. He was fit and his gray hair was long. Bobby was in no position to judge someone for having long hair, but he thought it was a ridiculous style for this too-old-for-his-mom hippie stuck somewhere in the 1960’s. The man reeked of weed and dressed like a Dead Head.

Bobby was left in the den with Horace while his mother prepared a Christmas dinner, refusing any help. She insisted that Horace and Bobby get to know one another. Bobby cringed at the thought. His mother had lousy taste in men.

Horace was living down to Bobby’s expectations. He came on too strong. He offered his hand as a friendly gesture and when Bobby politely attempted to shake his hand, Horace pulled him into a bear hug and patted his back as if Bobby was choking on a pork chop bone and his life depended on Horace beating him so hard he released it.

Bobby pulled away, rigid, uncomfortable. Horace was being too familiar and trying way too hard to convey a friendly and jovial disposition.

“You’re as good looking as your mom said,” Horace said to start their conversation. “I bet you get lots of girls.”

“Get them?” Bobby repeated. He knew what Horace meant, but he thought it was a vulgar thing to ask someone within three minutes of meeting.

“Don’t be coy,” Horace laughed. “Your mom is in the other room. I know you’re getting laid a lot.”

Bobby felt his defenses rise. “I do okay. Don’t see how it’s your business.”

“When you get to be my age, you’ll see why old men live vicariously through young men.”

Bobby lifted his chin in defiance. He would never be like Horace, or any of the others. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t talk about that with anyone. You’ll have to live vicariously elsewhere.”

Horace laughed. “I’m doing fine with your mom. She takes care of me and I take care of her.”

“Yeah, I don’t need to hear about that,” Bobby scowled. He knew this man would use his mom and get tired of her eventually just like everyone else.

“You’re more uptight than I imagined,” Horace criticized. “Maybe you’re not doing as well with the girls as you said.”

“Or maybe I don’t need to hear about your degrading my mother!” Bobby raised his voice. “And I don’t need any advice from you about my mom, women, or any damn thing else.” He got up and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

“Mom, I’m not staying for supper,” he announced, as he opened the door leading outside.

“Bobby, wait,” Betsy grabbed his arm. “It’s Christmas, Bobby. Please stay.”

Bobby looked to Betsy and back to the den where Horace was now standing in the doorway, looking smug. “I can’t,” he said. “You have your interests and I have mine. I’m not playing house with this loser just to make you happy.”

Betsy looked to Horace and back to Bobby. She swallowed the guilt that was choking her. “Okay, Bobby. I understand.”

Bobby kissed his mother’s cheek and high tailed it away from them. He stopped at a Chinese restaurant on his way back to his apartment and got some take out noodles and black-peppered chicken.

When he got home, he tossed the food on the counter and went to his bedroom to change into some sweatpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt. His mood was dour. He had never cared much about Christmas anyway, but his mother managed to ruin almost every chance they had to spend together.

Bobby took his food to his sofa and ate while he watched _It’s a Wonderful Life_. It _was not_ a wonderful life. Sometimes he too wished he had never been born. He doubted there would be any eventual realization that he really had a purpose and made a positive difference in the world.

The movie was emotionally manipulative, and he decided he hated being manipulated. He turned off the TV when his belly was full, and he felt sleepy. He had a headache, as he often did. He shut off the lights and made sure the blinds were closed. He pulled a blanket he kept on the back of the sofa over him and laid down with his head on a throw pillow. The only thing he could do when these headaches struck was sleep. He hoped the nightmares that came with the headaches would give him the holiday off.

Bobby found himself back in his mother’s home. Horace and Betsy were in his bed, having sex. He was just a little kid though. He crawled out of the bed and they didn’t even realize he was there. He threw up every bit of the noodles and chicken he had eaten. He saw that man on his mother and he was enraged. He had seen this before—other men. He was as scared as he was angry. He didn’t trust Horace any more than he trusted any of the slimy perverts, as far back as he remembered.

“Get off of her!” he yelled at Horace. “Stop it! Stop touching her!” An adult’s voice came from his body.

His mother was completely disinterested in anything going on around her.

Bobby, now an adult, grabbed Horace by his long gray hair and slammed him against the wall. “Apologize to my mother!” he demanded. “Apologize. Now.”

Horace just laughed at him. Horace’s face morphed from one man to another, one hated “daddy” or “uncle” after another.

There was a lamp on the dresser that was within his reach. Bobby grabbed the lamp and hit Horace as hard as he could. Horace went down, slumped on the floor. Bobby wrapped the electrical cord around his neck and pulled it tight. Horace clawed at his arms with his hands. He sputtered, begging for mercy.

Bobby watched as Horace’s face changed shades—white, red, purple. When he was sure Horace was no longer a threat, he dropped the lamp and the chord.

His mother was still in bed, oblivious. “I did it for you, Mama,” he told her. “I had to protect you.”

He crawled to the bed and, on his knees, begged her, “Mama? Mama, can you hear me? Do you know that I’m here? Did you see what I did?”

Betsy ignored him. He looked back to Horace’s body and it was gone. How had he been able to leave? Bobby had to find Horace to make sure Horace never spoke about him or his mother.

Bobby jerked awake, gasping for air. The dream was so vivid that he wondered if it had happened in the real world, outside his mind. He saw the containers of the Chinese food on the coffee table. He looked around. He had been here the whole time. Relieved, he realized it was just a dream. It was not the first time he had dreamt of killing someone whom he has perceived as a threat to himself of Betsy. He shook his head, trying to get the image of Horace’s body out of his mind. He didn’t want to remember what it felt like in his dream to kill, to watch life slip away at his hands.

Bobby’s heart was racing, and his clothes were wet with sweat. He knew the power would be addictive, but his dreams scared him. He feared he might act out a dream scenario in real life if someone pushed him too far. That wasn’t who he was, he told himself. He was not a killer. He was an artist.

He turned to his easel and paints to ease his mind. When he finished, his mind was anything but comforted. He had, in a trance like state, painted Horace—dead, splayed out, with peace signs around him. He titled the paining _At Peace_. The title fit Horace, only Horace.

All Bobby felt was a whirlwind of turmoil brewing in his brain. He had never known peace and it was likely that he never would. He was convinced that he was evil and one day that evil would manifest itself in the real world. He would never be _At Peace_ until he was as dead as his painted version of Horace.

—END 


End file.
